


Do you dream or do you grieve?

by GwenChan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha France (Hetalia), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Child Loss, Coping, Delusions, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Instability, Omega England (Hetalia), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: They were the happiest of families.Arthur isn't coping. Francis is trying to hang on.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	Do you dream or do you grieve?

The nursery hasn't changed a bit since that day. It’s been six months already, but entering and finding the chest full of clothes, and the toys all well stacked on the shelves, one would almost believe nothing had happened - that it was just a nightmare, a horrible nightmare. 

Any moment now a little hand will emerge from between the bars of the toddler bed, and a mass of sand-blond hair will follow.

But getting closer is enough to find there's nobody in the crib and enough to remember.

Every time, it's a punch in the guts. One single glance is enough to fall back into the vortex of questions: of if, and but, all without an answer. Although Francis now doubts that answers would be of any use, besides draining them emotionally, like courts and lawyers are draining them financially.

If it were up to him, he would lock the nursery forever, give away all the toys, the cot, the baby clothes, and try to forget.

Not that he didn't try, three months after the funeral, and for half a day the plan seemed to work; at least, until the evening when Arthur, his mate and his omega, started marching around the living room saying it was getting late and it was better to put Alfred, their beloved firstborn, to bed.

Once, Arthur would cuddle their baby until he stopped crying, murmuring soothing words and lullabies. There were days where Alfred cried most of the night, loud and desperate, and Arthur would stay awake to calm him down. More than once Francis found him asleep on the plush nursery carpet, Alfred sleeping on his back in the cradle of Arthur’s arm. 

Arthur had another one of his panic attacks when he found the nursery empty. It started quietly, as usual, with - by now - familiar signals. He glanced doubtedly around, moving on auto-pilot to the crib, only to not find it there. 

“What is this?” he asked Francis, lips twitching, with a strained, hiccup laugh. “Is this a joke? You know Alfred is still too little to sleep in a normal bed!" he screeched, hands suddenly in his hair, his head jerking right and left so quickly that for a moment Francis feared Arthur might break his neck. "And he certainly can't sleep in our bed," he went on. 

It took all of Francis’s care and patience to calm him down, explaining that he simply wanted to repaint the walls, and he had had put everything in the cellar for the moment. 

Then he drove, in the middle of the night, to the centre he had gifted all of Alfred’s things, hoping they would still have it and that they would understand why he needed it back.

Arthur’s standing in the nursery now. The air is thick, dense with omega pheromones. It's the last thing Francis would like to think about at the moment, but his partner's sweet, heady smell is too strong to ignore. Six months have passed and as horrible as Francis finds it to be, he cannot deny that the omega is going into heat again.

Doctors warned them. It's part of an omega’s nature, how their body overcomes the initial shock, and tends to anticipate or even increase the frequency of heats in case, heaven forbid, something happens to their pups.

Something happens! A nice way to describe the fact that at home the cot is empty, because instead at the cemetery, there's a mini-coffin that has been underground for six months. 

"Oh, did I wake you up?" Arthur just smiles as he turns around, a ball of blankets wrapped in his arms. Francis tells himself he should be used to it by now, but the more the situation doesn't improve, the more he falls short of words.

"It's late," he tries anyway, taking a few steps into the room, looking for a neutral point to stare into, anything to give his mind some peace for a moment.

"I know, but Alfred just doesn't want to sleep," Arthur coos, hopping the bundle as if there was actually a baby wrapped in it. "I think he’s hungry, but you know how the paediatrician said it’s not good for him to eat at night."

It makes Francis want to grab Arthur by the wrist, drag him into the car, and drive to the cemetery to slam the truth into his face. He did it, more than once, and each time the routine has been the same. First the confusion in Arthur’s eyes, all the colour draining from his face, and then that horrible sound of anguish and pain coming from the back of his throat. 

Once, before Francis could stop him, he punched and scratched and screamed at the tombstone till his knuckles and nails bled.

Arthur would cry for days, lying in bed and simply sobbing. After that, however, things got better, at least for a while (actually, they were still the worst, but at least Arthur was  _ grieving _ ).

But when Francis finally started to hope and believe, Arthur came home with two bags full of onesies and new little clothes, because ‘Alfred was growing up so fast’.

Doctors advised him to be careful. He has been careful for six months and it hasn't helped an inch. Doctors say it will improve, that he just needs to be patient; but the more time passes, the more Francis begins to believe nothing will fix by itself. Truth is, there’s no putting back together two pieces once they have snapped apart. Arthur has always been prone to heavy mood swings, even before they started dating, in college, but it didn’t seem to be anything to worry about then.

Maybe bringing Arthur back to the graveyard will work this time, once and for all. Or maybe he will convince himself the name on the tombstone is just a bad case of homonymy, because their Alfred is at home, playing with cubes and teething.

Francis would love to tear his husband out of his dream world. Instead, he gently takes the empty bundle from his arms, careful to behave as if he is still holding his son.

"I'll take care of him here," he murmurs, his words accompanied by a light caress on Arthur's cheek. It makes his heart melt when Arthur leans into the touch.

"Sure?" he asks, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a yawn. Francis gives him a quick kiss on the forehead.

"Sure. You're tired. Go back to sleep."

Francis walks out of the nursery as soon as Arthur leaves. He still holds the blankets, and in walking around the house aimlessly there's a moment when he can almost believe it’s true. Mostly he does it in case Arthur wakes up. The same reason why he is humming a melody with closed lips, as long as his voice doesn't crack. Salt has a familiar taste. Alphas normally don’t cry, but damn it, he did.

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand as he puts the covers into the cot.

When he returns to bed, Arthur is sleeping in the fetal position, as usual, on his side. The sheets have slid down to his waist in his sleep. His pyjamas are wet with sweat, the gland on his neck exposed.

He seems calm, enough that when slipping under the covers, Francis dares to get closer, until he buries his nose in Arthur's nape and inhales the faint trace of his shampoo.

Arthur mumbles in response. Then, for the first time in too long, he turns to face him.

Francis almost doesn't dare to breathe while Arthur intertwines his legs with his, pressing his face against his chest, eyes still closed. He smells so good, a scent that Francis would recognize in a crowd of a thousand, the trace of his Omega.

Arthur hasn't been so close to him in weeks. It’s painful. It reminds him of how it was before, when at night Arthur would begin to rut against him, in silent invitation, the murmur on his lips almost a purr.

It reminds Francis of the precise, perfect sequence of gestures: the feel of Arthur’s erection pressing against his own, still half-asleep, pulling down pyjama pants and underwear just enough, framing the inside of his elbow in the crease behind Arthur's knee, rubbing together their scent glands, lifting Arthur's legs up and apart and finally penetrating him with all the slowness in the world. Feeling his warmth, getting intoxicated by it, until they merge into a single entity.

Francis knows that's still asking too much.

He still dares to put a hand on the upper part of Arthur's thigh, almost where the pelvis juts out. In response, Arthur squirms a bit more.

"'ancis?" he murmurs, his name heavy and slurred with sleep.

"I'm here, love. I'm here."

For a moment Francis fears that he will retreat again. Instead, Arthur just sighs against his neck.

"I think it would be nice if Alfred had a little brother or a little sister," he whispers, a murmur that freezes the blood in Francis' veins.

It isn't like he doesn't want to try and rebuild a family in the future, but it still seems too early.

"You sure?" he asks, trying not to let Arthur hear the way his voice breaks. Arthur almost purrs and no doubt it's his pre-heat speaking.

"I've thought about it for a while. I think it's time."

Normal that he has no doubts, when from his point of view, there is no reason to postpone. Francis doesn't know what to do, whether to drag Arthur to a psychiatrist, make him accept reality, with the risk of never being able to put the pieces back together. Or to linger in his fantasies, hoping that maybe, another baby will finally help him overcome the mourning. Francis would be lying if he said he didn’t really want other pups.

If his nose hasn't deceived him, Arthur's heat will come shortly. He must have felt it too, the subtle but very clear change in his body. 

Francis has no illusions of passing through heat without at least the thought it will result in a pregnancy. They are both young and fertile. They have excellent chances of conceiving. Young, fertile, and bonded. 

There are condoms made specifically for alphas, it's true, but among the consequences of bonding, there is also how the heat of a bonded omega can be calmed only by complete and free sexual intercourse with their own alpha. Unless one wants to risk extreme and harmful hormonal changes.

They will have to talk about it, face to face, in the daytime, before his heat makes it impossible to reason.

Doing something without having first talked about it is out of the question. The last thing Francis wants is for Arthur to find himself dealing with a pregnancy he doesn't remember wanting. If he shows any doubts, then there are contraceptives strong enough even for an omega in heat.

Contraceptives could be a solution. However while they can work once, maybe twice, surely they won’t in the long run. Moreover, there's the not-insignificant risk of causing sterility in an omega if abused. Also, there's no counting what damage continuous failure to conceive could do to the self-esteem and psyche of an omega who wants to have children.

Overall it’s like being trapped at a fucking dead end. Heck, Francis should have an answer, should be the alpha, always in control of the situation. But he's more lost than ever.

"Francis?" Arthur calls him, bringing him back from his thoughts. He snuggles even more against him until Francis gets the message, and locks him in an embrace.

"What is it, love?"

He feels Arthur inhale. "Your smell. Something wrong?"

These are the moments when Francis curses bonding and how difficult it is to pretend or hide something from his partner. As he can know what mood Arthur will be even before he enters the house, the omega can do the same with him.

"Nothing. It's nothing," he hastens to deny. "I was thinking about work," he adds, just to have an excuse to hide behind.

"Um. Stupid work," comments Arthur, with a seriousness that, despite everything, makes him laugh. "Don't think about it now."

Then he snuggles out of the embrace enough to put his head back on the pillow and align his face with Francis's. Even in the dark, Francis has no doubts that he has opened his eyes and he is staring into his, also wide open.

"Is it really just your work?" he asks again. "You are so tense. You feel really worried," he continues, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with Francis's, who cannot help bringing them to his lips.

"It's nothing, really," he tries to reassure him. He would like to add something, anything, but the words stop on the tip of his tongue.

"Sure?" Arthur insists.

"Sure," Francis confirms, settling better to cuddle him again, without getting numb. "Come here."

Once more, almost miraculously, Arthur indulges without a fuss, him who isn't docile even when he sleeps. 

Francis is sure that by tomorrow morning, he will find him in the kitchen, opening jar after jar of apple homogenate and complaining, because ‘this morning, Alfred is really making a fuss’, until Francis, out of pity, will empty them in the sink when Arthur isn't looking, or will push him out of the kitchen to pretend to feed a delusion. 

But maybe tomorrow, instead, Arthur will be more lucid, wrapped in his blanket of pain, but more lucid. There may even be time to sit down and talk. Ask him if he just wants to give ‘Alfred’ a playmate, or if he wants another child in general. Francis sighs.

The possibilities are endless and all equally terrible.

For the moment, then, the only sure thing is Arthur who sleeps tight against him, and Francis finds himself clutching at him like a lifesaver.

Till dawn, the rest can wait.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> It was born as a Next to Normal inspired AU, but in the end it can be read independently.
> 
> Betated by the lovely greendragon_templar. Thank you!


End file.
